A Truthful Lie
by WriterOnTheMove
Summary: Charlotte Prowl, a girl who's lost everything, including herself. She tries to get through life as two people, but soon all she sees is death and a life she can't stop running from. R & R please
1. Prologue

_A Truthful Lie_

_Prologue_

"_Charlotte!" I turn my head to see who has just called my name. There are so many heads crowding the small hallways of Medinton High school. Unfortunately all of them look familiar to me. "Charlotte," it calls again. I skim the crowd again looking for the person. Then a small hand emerges from the bustle, below that, just barely visible is a head. Covering the top is a full head of deep brown hair. Hazel eyes a button nose and cotton candy colour lips finish the pretty picture of Lauren Middingfield._

_I watch her begin to push through the students. She nudges and disturbs everyone with her boney little elbows before showing up about a foot away from me. I sigh. Lauren is a good friend, or so she pretends to be. She's got a big heart for herself and being a ruler of the school. Unfortunately she had to settle for assistant because being at the top is my job. At least, at school it is._

_"You're coming to practise tonight, right?" she asks, bobbing her head up and down vigorously. She won't stop, and it's starting to bug me. I paste on the fakest, but most believing smile I can conjure up, and trying to sound peppy say, "of course, Lauren, why would I miss it. It is my team, right. What kind of captain would I be if I didn't even show up to my own practise?" She smiles with me, a sickenly fake smile. A smile that in my eyes, says, 'Charlotte, you can pretend to be so perfect as much as you want, but I will destroy you.' _

_The tardy bells goes, and I watch Lauren jump back into the now thinning crowd of students and make her way to her next class. I take a look around me. At the opened locker door, and the pretty pink contents filling it. I see the pretty reflection of myself in the mirror hanging on the inside, and the post-it notes stuck underneath reminding me of a test or a special date coming up. I look down at the red and white uniform I'm wearing. Its skirt is short, ending about halfway down my thigh leaving my tanned legs bare. The shirt's hem is sewn to create a 'v' shape in the front and back, showing off just a bit of my sides, and the neck line isn't too deep, but still shows off a bit of cleavage._

_I look at the tiny white rabbit placed just below the tip of the neck line, symbolizing the school team. I look over myself, and see nothing but a girl trapped in someone else's body._

_I'm late again, naturally. It seems like everyday I'm always late for something. I walk into my third period history class. The teacher eyes me disapprovingly, gives me an indescribable sound, perhaps you could categorize it as a grunt, and turns back to the board where she was vigorously writing about the French revolution._

_Sometimes I wonder what the point of school is. They teach you to sit in class and listen to some kind of an adult go on about stuff that's happened so many years ago. _

_Shouldn't they be teaching us how to do our taxes, or how to find a job or how to marry rich so you don't have to work at all? All I'm saying, is that would be a much easier lesson to sit through then some old lady telling us about another old lady who now lay buried under seven feet of dirt with a arched shape stone placed on top so the world can know who exactly is rotting in that specific bit of ground. I take my seat in the back._

_I look at my surroundings. I see faces I've clearly known for years, but none of them look familiar. None of them look to be who they say they really are. Soon I find their features blurring, like I had been looking at them for too long and my eyes could no longer focus. Everyone was like that. Everything was becoming unclear. Soon the entire room looked like it was merging into one thing, and then it was like someone just off all the light in the world with one big universal switch._

_Then, like I was watching a deck of flash cards, pictures began whizzing through right in front of my face. A boy lingered on one, with dark brown hair and eyes the color of gold. The next, a black rose with petals filled in so much that they dripped perfect black teardrops right off the tips. The last one, it lay burned and seared into my memory, could not be described using details of depth. All that lay on the card was blood._

_"Charlotte!" The high pitched voice coming from the girl next to me jolted me awake. It reluctantly pulled me out of my uncanny but very frightening nightmare, "Charlotte get your head in it. Where are you?" I racked my mind for an answer, any answer, even the smallest of ones to satisfy her, " I don't know," I said._


	2. Chapter 1: Who Am I?

A Truthful Lie

Chapter 1: Who Am I?

_Have you ever felt like you don't belong in this world? Like there's something more out there. Have you ever felt like the entire world is just weighing you down, keeping you from doing what you want? _

_That's how it's like for me. I am seventeen. I am confused. It feels like no one understands me, but that could just be a teenage thing. I'm not like everyone else, and I've had multiple people tell me that. _

_I cry way too much for someone my age, and I am way too sensitive. _

_So, is this where my story begins? Or is it too early to start explaining? I sometimes wonder that too. Where can I begin? If I start in the beginning, it'll be too long, but if I start mid way, I won't have the entire story which may leave some readers confused._

_But then again, how can I tell a story without confusing someone, if I don't even understand it myself. So where does that leave me now? With a few measly sentences' written on my computer telling the world how crazy I am for thinking I'll be able to write a novel about my life, or is it leaving me with a beginning, a middle that's still in my head and an end I'm dreading to encounter. I don't know exactly. But who does? _

_Here's what I do know. I am seventeen, but I've already said that. I am five eight and I have green eyes, but they sometimes change color in the sunlight, they turn foam green with a hint of sky blue in the centre of them._

_My name is Charlotte Prowl and I have blonde hair with thin black streaks weaving through, it reaches my shoulders. _

_I am also lost, but not like in the woods, don't know how to get out lost, but lost like forgotten. I am pretending to be something I'm not. You look around at people and you see what they want you to see. You never see what's underneath those lies and deceptions. They pull you around, they play with our minds, and they make you believe that they are perfect. _

_They make you believe those smiles, those devilish smiles that are pasted on their faces. I never believe those smiles. I never believe the words people tell me. You know those words. They are supposed to be comforting, suppose to keep you from panicking, those words that slice through your skin like it was tissue paper. Each word only said so they can keep you living in this world of pain and tears that flow out of you like a bottomless river, that much longer. I don't believe a single one._

_I am independent. I survive on my own with no help from others. What's the point if all that leaves their mouths are lies? The sad part about all of this is that I am one of these people. _

_I am not who I say I am. I am though seventeen with green eyes that change color in the sunlight, blonde hair with black streaking through, that reaches my shoulders, and my name is Charlotte Prowl. _

_What I have not told you is that I am a cheerleader. Yes, I am a preppy blonde who runs around a football field wearing a skirt too short to be called a skirt. I see these people who call themselves popular. I am one of these people. _

_So, now you know a little bit about me. Now where am I? Still lost? Or just hiding in a place I can't be found. Maybe, I'm just mingled with such a large group of people also pretending to be something they are not, making me even harder to spot. So where am I?_

Here, I sit in my room. The furniture just there. Not doing anything. My ordinary bed lay in the corner of my dark blue cellar, or so it feels like. It is my sanctuary though. The only place I can go to hide from this fake world.

My dresser stands tall along my farthest wall. My window lets sunlight into the small space. Everything is so still. So bland. But yet it mocks me.

It says, 'Charlotte, we are who we are.' The bed says, 'I am a bed. There is nothing I can do to make myself anything else.' The dresser chirps, 'I am a dresser. Not a liar.'

The window screams at me saying, 'you can open me and you can close me. You can also break me, but that is all you can do to me. You can be tampered with Charlotte, you can be lied too, and you can be pushed around. I cannot. I am just a window.' They mock me. All of them. I hear them laughing at me each time I walk through the door.

Even the door. It shuts itself in my face. It locks itself so I can't get away from my second life. It keeps me out of my sanctuary. It snickers at me as it watches me suffer a little bit more. It says, 'no, I will not open up for you because you must learn to survive in the world outside me.'

But today is a good day. Today my belongings are quiet. Why? I do not know. Perhaps they have run out of things to say. What do I do now? I have never been in a position like this. Where things are good.

It's very quiet. All I hear is the typing of my keyboard keys. The soft wind pushing through my opened window. Outside it is still as well. Like the world has just suddenly stopped. The small baby cardinals that are usually chirping brightly in the nest that is built in the big oak tree that is parallel to my window are suddenly silent.

The young boys that ride up and down my friendly street on their bikes are suddenly not yelling and shouting away the remainder of the weekend. It is all still. Everything, not just the furniture in my room. The wind has settled now. The leaves on the trees remain statue like. Every blade of grass is paralyzed standing up perfectly straight like it was resting against a straight edge ruler. The world is waiting.

So I stand up, and enter it. It is like passing through a ghost. Cold and unwelcoming.

I can hear my parents arguing in the kitchen. Their voices run scared up the staircase and into my room. They echo off the narrow hallway walls making them sound ten times louder than they should.

It's their usual argument. The one I hear every night around this time. Dad yells at mom for being so unreasonable about his late night drinking. Mom shouts back in frustration that he's a drunk and needs to leave. Dad rebuts about having a daughter, which he really doesn't care about, and needs to stay apart of her, my, life as long as possible.

Mom acts as if she doesn't even know what he's referring too and continues to talk about herself and how she can't handle the house with his irresponsible actions and the money he spends on alcohol each night. Then dad raises his hands in surrender and storms out the front door.

Sure enough, not minutes later, I hear the door slam shut with such force it sounds like the frame nearly came tumbling down. Then followed by the slam is the engine of my dad's Buick starting, and the sound of rubber being burned against ash fault.

I wait a couple of minutes. Listening for my mother's footsteps grudgingly climbing the stairs to her dark little cave she calls her own bedroom, but I hear nothing. Just the low whistle of the kettle that settles on top of the rusty stove we own announcing its water is boiled and ready for the coffee my father was making to dilute the huge amount of whisky he downed that night.

An old trick he used so he wouldn't wake up with such a big hangover. Then I hear it; the sound that will remain with me for all of my years to come. The sound of my life changing, which coincidently sounds like sharp metal hitting hard tile.  
I run from my little cover, rushing down the stairs two at a time. I enter the beat up living room with one dirty torn up couch and a fireplace that's never been used.

I skid through the partially used dining room, and stop dead in the doorway of the kitchen. I look down at my mother's body strewn across the floor. Slipping out from under her is a puddle of red; blood. Her blood. The metal that hit the kitchen tiles is a steak knife. It lies beside her wrist which is cut open and gushing crimson blood. She is losing blood quickly, but she isn't dead. Not yet at least.  
I grab the phone from the kitchen counter. Dead, that's what it is. I am stupid for thinking she charged it today. I'm running out of options. Again, I've never been in this situation before. She's never tried killing herself. Just cries herself to sleep each night.

I could call for help, but who would want to help me? The neighbours are afraid of our family. They too hear the fighting that goes on inside these paper thin walls. They want nothing to do with us. They are as much use to me as the dead phone lying on the kitchen table.

So, slowly I scoop my mother's frail body into my arms, lifting with my legs. I cradle her against my chest. Heaving, trying to get her out the front door. Once I manage that, my mind goes blank again.

The nearest hospital is nearly thirty minutes away. I stand here. Fear etched in my face. Fear that my mother won't live the rest of her life following this day.

She is heavy in my weak chicken arms. I can feel them begin to give in. My knees feel like they are going to buckle. I haven't even made it down the street. I don't think I'll make it on time, at least not in time to save her. I feel tears streak down my cheek. It's nothing I'm not used too.

The tears comfort me. They tell me I am in pain and that they will distract me from the dying woman I am carrying. Then I hear it. The sound of life. Of a miracle occurring. The voice, it reminds me of God coming to rescue me and my mother.

It says, "Hey, you need a ride. That doesn't look easy." I look at this man. A stranger with a pasted smile on his face, but eyes of kindness. I don't know how, but I somehow manage a nod through my shivering body, chattering teeth and low sobs escaping from my mouth.

Four or five steps give or take. That's all I have to take before I can rest. I turn my body towards the car.

I admire its details. Trying to distract myself because my tears have failed at that. It is green. Not a puke green, but more of a green bean green. There is a small scrape along the front. Just above the left tire but just below the side mirror. It's not a scratch. It looks more like a child has been picking at the spot of paint, peeling it off layer by layer until they reached the raw metal hiding underneath. There is a dent in the back. Just before the car stretched into the bumper. It is small. Maybe the size of a small coin, but it is very visible to me.

The car's headlights are on by now because it is dark. The lights are bright, piercing the black night stretched out before him, but they are not as bright as they should be. You can tell they are beginning to burn out. The color slightly dim.

I take two more steps. The man reaches across the passenger's seat to open the door, then reaches for the back handle and opens that door. I take the three remaining steps. Carefully I bend my back so that I don't hit my mother's head on the sloping roof and lie her down on the backseat. Her arms flop over the sides, and her legs are too long to be stretched out completely, so I have to bend them to close the door.

My arms hurt and my heart throbs all over the place. It doesn't beat in its normal pattern. I fumble for the door trying to keep myself standing. Eventually I crash into the front seat and slam the door close. All the time the man is staring at me.

He is young, can't be much older then I. Possibly eighteen or nineteen. His hair is blonde and cut short. His eyes, hazel with a bit of gold mixed in. His face is pale speckled with a few freckles. His lips, parted slightly, but curve deliciously. His features are oddly familiar, but a dream-like familiar.

"Where do you need to go? The hospital I presume." His voice. It passes through me like a lullaby soothing me to sleep. He is beautiful. Unlike anyone I'd ever laid my eyes on before. I nod at his words, and watch him turn his head to the front. We are moving. The friendly street that was full of life only two hours ago blurs through his window. Soon the houses are replaced with stores, then trees then open road.


	3. Chapter 2: The Unseen Death

Chapter 2: The Unseen Death

"What did you say your name was?" he spoke out finally. It had been fifteen minutes and thirty-nine seconds of silence. I was counting. "I didn't, but its Charlotte." I see his lips curl at the corner. Is he happy he knows my name, or smiling at my unwelcoming tone of voice. From the rear-view mirror I can see my mother lying in the back.

Her chest rises once, and then falls, and a few seconds if not minutes, rises again weakly. I can see the fresh blood dripping out slowly, but it isn't as quick as it was in the kitchen. Still, she doesn't have much time. My hands are shaking beneath my jacket and all the time i can't look away from my lifeless mother.

"What's your name?" the question reminds me of a toddler walking up to a lonely boy trying to make friends with him.

"Trystan." Is his reply. _Trystan_, I think. _It rolls off the tongue nicely_.

We drive through the night for another twenty-two minutes and fifty-three seconds. Trystan keeps the tense atmosphere somewhat loose with small idle chatter. He is eighteen years three months two weeks and four days old.

His birthday is on October eighteenth and his favourite color is turquoise. He is taking some time off from school. A gap year or two, then he is going off to a university in Nova Scotia. I find myself mesmerized by him.

I don't know why we are doing this at the moment. My mother is in the back seat of his car having a battle with Death and he is telling me about his birthday. I don't complain though because even though my mother is dying, i need something to distract me.

What I find most intriguing about him is how he stays so perfectly calm through this somewhat horrible situation I've put him in. He doesn't ask questions, just knows I need to get to the hospital and fast. He doesn't bombard me with assumptions. He just drives and minds his own business.

_What is wrong with him_? _There has to be something wrong. He is human. So why isn't he acting like one. He should be drowning me in questions. Threatening to call the police as soon as we reach the hospital. He should be freaking out. Hell, he shouldn't have even asked me if I needed help. Human, wasn't it human nature to only care about you and only you? That's how it always seemed. Everyone for their own._

His face is lit by the sudden bursts of light that flood through the car. We have reached the hospital. He pulls into the parking lot, and jumps out of the car without turning the engine off. In no time at all he is crawling in beside my mother and pulling her out. I run around the car to his side and help him with her unconscious body. He has her by the ankles I by her hands, resisting the temptation to grab for her bloody wrists.

We carry her into the emergency doors. Doctors scatter around us, but it feels like at the time when we need them most, there are none there. At least none who are paying enough attention to care that we are dragging a dying, if not already dead, woman through the wings of their own hospital.

The receptionist stood as we neared the counter. I let go of my mother, but Trystan still held her ankles. "We have a dying woman here," I mutter to her. Yes, I mutter it. Being in hospitals always scared me. It makes me feel sick like I am one of the patients.

She calls for a doctor that is wandering around the corner before coming around the desk herself. This human, this one human woman who is suppose to save lives instead of for longing them, starts sending out questions to me, "how much blood has she lost? How long has she been out for? Was the knife that was used sterile? How did this happen?" the questions overpowered me.

I have no answers for them like many other things in life. I always come up empty handed. Blank. I need help, but every time I reach a hand out all I grab is air.

I watch the pale skin nurse. She has fair blonde hair that is covered with a medical cap. Her dress is white, but if you look closely you can see it is spotted with deep red blood. There is no fake smile on her face. All there is is worry lines and bruises under her eyes from working night shifts for the past two months. The doctor; a husky bald man with a slight beard growing, is wearing a long white lab coat.

I watch the two people lift my mother effortlessly. I remember how hard it was to lift her myself and walk down the street. They just pick her up like she is a feather, and place her carefully on a rolling bed. I watch them scribble a few things down on a chart and disappear behind a door.

The receptionist, which I have discovered somehow is named Barb, is waving a hand in front of my face. She breathes out deeply giving up on me completely. I can't find my feet.

Like I said before, I am lost. But here, standing in this hospital, I am not forgotten lost. I am lost within myself. It feels like my entire body has chosen to ignore my commands. I tell my legs to move, to go over to one of the grimy hospital chairs that will probably turn my butt numb in about ten minutes.

I tell my eyes to stay open as I stand here tired and afraid. I tell my hands and teeth to stop shaking. I tell my voice to speak up so someone can help me do these commands. But each demand will leave my mind, travel through a few nerves and then just meet resistance. It will hit a brick wall and just evaporate with my failures.

So, I just stand there. Not doing anything. Staring at the spot where my mother disappeared. I am confused again. _How did I end up here?_

Yes, that is a rhetorical question because of course I know how I got here. What I mean is how did I allow myself to come here? _Why am I like this, always getting myself into these horrible situations? Once again I am alone, but the world I stand in does not meet the description I gave earlier. This world is real. This is where people die, live, and leave. _

_This world is full of mourning and sadness. This is the world I live in everyday only I live it outside these four walls. Beyond the machines, medication and life support. That's where people find me._

_No, they do not find me on top of a pyramid in the middle of the biggest game of the year. Those people who cheer and love me, they have no idea who I am. Like I said, they only see me because that person is who I want them to see._

_I would never allow anyone to see me like this. To discover the true me. No, I am a preppy blonde cheerleader who is popular and loved by everyone. I am not screwed up no matter how messed my life may be. That is who I am, that is who everyone will see me by. No matter what they think or assume. _

But I realise, I am not alone. Not now at least. Because suddenly I feel arms around me, they guide me to a chair, and push me down until I feel something solid under me. His hands are warm, they comfort me. Tell me things will be alright.

I look up and I stare straight into Trystan's eyes. They are beautiful now that I am looking at them with light surrounding us. They tell me softly that he will be here for me. That I should not be afraid of anything, even the things I've been trying so hard to keep under my own control.

His face watches me. I see every detail now; every laugh line and every dimple. I see his lips, how they curve so gracefully, parting, then meeting again in the center. I see his soft cheeks, how they are slightly pink from all the commotion.

Then his face, it begins to blur, and I don't know why. All I know is his hands are touching my face; his perfectly shaped hands. They are wiping away moisture I don't even know is there. He's holding me; his arms wrapping around me tighter.

I try to keep strong. I am not going to let him break me, but I know as I think this that my mask is slowly tearing apart. This is no place, a hospital concealing my mother, to try and be tough. But as hard as I try, he's only making it more difficult.

He's whispering now. I can't quite make it out through the blubbering noises coming from my mouth. I've never made this noise before. It's strange; kind of a mix between a walrus and a dying cow.

What is he doing now? Something I've never had anyone do to me before. His hands, they are in my hair now. He's stroking it. Making shushing noises like I was a toddler who won't shut up. I wish he wouldn't see me like this. _Why is he being so calm about everything_?

I hardly know this man and yet here I am, in his arms, crying. I've never cried in front of anyone before. Not even my own mother. She's teased me before, telling me I'm made of stone because I am incapable of crying, but here I am; tears streaking down my face. I can't stop. Remember I have no control anymore, no matter how hard I try.

_Oh, Trystan_ I think. _Why are you even here? Do you want to ruin me? Who are you? That is the question I should be asking. Who are you to step into my life for one night and completely destroy my life's work? _

_Why don't I hate you? Aren't you just one of them; someone else who will come in and tear me down until I'm just a pile of rubble on the floor in front of your feet. You'll laugh at me, and kick some loose pieces. Then spit and walk away. _

_That's what they all do. I am nothing compared to everyone else. I am as boring as the air you breathe in so recklessly. You don't even think about you're breathing, but I do. I see your chest rise and fall in a pattern you call your own. That's me you're breathing, seeing as I am the air. You cannot see me because you do not wish to see me. _

So why are you holding me? I can now hear things. Things I could never hear before. I've only just noticed how loud his heartbeat is in my head. My head; it's lying against his chest. I'm so close I can hear every beat his strong heart beats. I can smell his cologne. It's white musk. It matches him perfectly.

My sobs have died now. I'm no longer making those strange hard to conjure up noises anymore. I can hear what Trystan is mumbling in my hair.

"Charlotte, it will be okay. Be strong. She will be okay." _How can you tell me such lies? Trystan, sweet Trystan, you're a fool for coming here. You think you know me after one car ride, but I am much more complicated than that. I do not want to hear that sweet honey like voice of yours. It is poison to my mind. So why do I continue to listen to it? I have yet to understand myself, so how can I understand you?_

I can feel my eye lids grow heavy. They just can't fight sleep any longer, but how can I sleep. I am still in Trystan's arms. He is still stroking my hair lightly, weaving his fingers in it. His thumb caresses my cheek, stroking that too. How is it possible to feel so safe in stranger's arms? (Chapter)


	4. Chapter 3: Dream of Fat and Candle Wax

Chapter 3: The Dream of Fat and Candle Wax

I am falling now; falling deep into unconsciousness, but not like my mother's lovely slumber. I am falling asleep. The hospital begins to melt. The chairs are turning to green goo beneath my bottom. Trystan slides off of it with me still encircled in his arms.

The receptionist's desk pops into a billion bubbles. The walls evaporate like it is the temperature of the sun in here. The floor starts to shake violently beneath me. The other patients and visitors turn into tiny zombies walking dead across the vast nothingness. Soon, it is just Trystan and I, in a room of black. He doesn't seem to notice. He is still watching me.

_Why do you look at me like that Trystan? I am not your love. You should not have such desire in your eyes. You look at me like I have been in your life for years like we did not just meet on the side of the road with my suicidal mother hanging limp in my arms. _

_Why are you so different? What makes me want to reach out and touch you? I don't know myself, and this is me we are talking about. Aren't I supposed to know the answers to my own questions, especially since I'm asking them about myself? Why is life so confusing? _

I am dreaming; I must be. There's no way the walls floor and furniture can just disappear.

"Trystan," I say softly trying not to disturb the silence that is cast on the dark room. He raises his head slowly. He looks the same; nothing different.

His eyes are still hazel with bits of gold flecked in the irises. His lips still curve perfectly, his cheeks are still rosy. He is himself. But am I?

I look down at myself. My faded blue spaghetti strap shirt is covered in dried blood. I can see my reflection in Trystan's eyes. My hair is messy resembling a rather large bird's nest. It reminds me of the baby cardinal's nest.

I had watched the mother cardinal build that nest for weeks before she laid her eggs in it. Layering twigs and mud and other bits of random nature lying around. She was so determined.

I am jealous of her. That such a small creature is capable of having so much energy and determination in it. I wish I can be that dedicated to something, even someone; anyone.

The only thing I've ever cared or loved the most in life is a pet goldfish I won at a carnival one year when I was six. It died a year later. I didn't flush it like any cruel owner would do. I buried it in a shoe box that I decorated with stones and 'under the sea' things. Then I put all its plants and statues in with it and dug it a grave in our backyard. Ever since then, on May sixth I walk out to my backyard and look down on the small patch of grass that is my dead fish's grave. I say a few words and run back inside. I never cried though.

My eyes, I can see, are stained pink and puffy because of rubbing them constantly. My hands, as I look down on them, are worn out and red as well.

If I were to stand up against Trystan, we would look opposite each other. Him clean and perfect, me a mess.

What does he think of me? What does he see without my mask on? At school I am beautiful, popular, and wisest. Here at the hospital, with messy hair and blood smeared across my face. I am hideous. So I hide. I pull away from him and bury my face in my hands.

I curl into a little ball like a potato bug being poked. I move as far away from him as possible.

"Charlotte, what's wrong?" he pleads standing and towering above me. I am ashamed of myself. _How could I have let him in? This was stupid and wrong._

"Charlotte, what's wrong." I see him kneel down before me through cracked fingers. He grabs my hand gently. I feel its strength. I am aware of every muscle tensing in his fingers as he flexes them around my fragile hand.

"Don't look at me," I struggle to say through gasping breaths, "I look like a monster." I can't see his face, but I can feel his movements. I know he's shaking his head. I feel him sit down in front of me and cross his legs. Then his hand is clutching my arms. It burns my skin, but when I look down at where he's touching me it's still intact. There are no burn marks.

His hand comes down under my chin, and I watch his chest move into his face. He's looking straight into my eyes and says, "You are gorgeous."

_Lies_ I want to shout _all lies, you may be beautiful, and you may have more control over me than anyone else, but you are still human. You are not like them, but you are still human. You are still capable of telling truths that are not true. You may be good at hiding your emotions, and you may be good at getting me to reveal mine, but I will not yield before you. I am still me. I am still someone I am not. You will never get down deep enough to find out the true me. I am sorry my sweet Trystan, but you will eventually come to your senses and realise what a mistake I am. _

_You will be like everyone else. They gave me a chance. They thought they had fallen in love with me. But they were not in love with me, they were in love with the girl they thought was me but really wasn't. Then they drilled me to my core until they saw my true beauty, my true monster. Then they ran away in fear. Their eyes burned from their sockets smelling of fat and candle wax. Their flesh melted right off their bones leaving no scares, just tissue and unprotected muscle. They turned hideous like myself, and ran from me in fear. _

_They then told all their friends to stay away from me, and I was once again left to isolate in my sanctuary where no one but my furniture could bother me._

I think all of this. I want to tell him all of this, but it would be a waste of my time because this is a dream. He will wake up with me still in his lap and act like he was in a trance. He will not remember anything, and he will like it that way. So I wait. Wondering what will happen next. I enjoy my few hours of love that will soon become hate. But that's life, and I have come to accept this


	5. Chapter 4: For The Love of Death

Chapter 4: For the Love of Death

He still stares at me. He looks like he is frozen in time; watching my every move. I wish I could stay here, but like all good things, it will end. How long that may be I am not sure. It could be hours, seconds, minutes. It's sometimes hard to tell.

He doesn't move. He doesn't blink at all. His chest is no longer breathing the air plentifully. He is like a statue made of flesh and bones.

I watch him fade. Begin to blend in with the background. First his feet leave. Just a small portion of his body missing, but as I watch, his legs disappear, then his torso, chest and neck. Soon all I see is a floating head. One by one his features change. His hair begins to darken. His pupils are dilated and black like the night sky.

His lips turn blue and his skin grows a deeper tan. I watch as he vanishes from my sight completely. Soon I am alone. It feels like I am being drowned in a lake of oil. The current slowly stretching above me to pull me under its darkened greasy depths. There I will finally die the death I've been waiting for. The pain won't be pleasant, but when it's finally over, I will be happy.

There is an echoing sound. It vibrates off the walls of my dream. It lifts me. I am no longer lying at the bottom of the oily lake. It sounds like footsteps. They get louder and louder. Then my dream turns into light. It blinds me. It looks like I am on the surface of the sun. Or perhaps I did die, and this is heaven, but why would I go to heaven. I have not done anything good to deserve this.

Sadly this is not heaven. This is the hospital, and the light is the bright florescent bulbs blazing down over top of me. The sound I hear are footsteps; the doctor's footsteps. He is standing in front of me. Eyes filled with sympathy.

Somehow, I know the words he is going to say before they even leave his twisted mouth. He shakes his head thinking this will allow them to tumble out easier, "please don't make this harder." I whisper, "Just say it. I know you don't want to, but it'll be easier if you just spit them out; like ripping off a band-aid."

I could feel the pain behind each word. How it ploughed up his throat slicing the soft tissue of the oesophagus. Each word is like a small razor blade, and as it leaves his mouth it jumps over and falls right through my chest leaving tiny bloody punctures.

"Your mother. I understand you did all you could to get her here, but the cuts, they were too deep. She lost too much blood. There was nothing we could do. I'm sorry." _You aren't sorry. You tell all your dead patients families that. It's your job. It was in the contract you signed when you received this job oh so long ago. Although there are tears glazing your eyes, and your mouth shakes as you speak._

_Although you stare at the ground too ashamed to look me in the eye, you are not sorry. You live with death. Death comes knocking at your door every day. You are used to this like I am used to these tears falling down my cheeks._

I watch you turn around, your hunched back facing me. You drop my mother's charts off at the desk before turning around the corner so you can kill another patient and restart this conversation again. No matter what you say, no matter how well an actor you are, you enjoy telling people they have lost someone within these frightening walls. You love seeing people break down at your feet; asking for help, encouraging words, forgiveness; anything.

You don't care because you know that at the end of the day you can go home to your wife and possibly kids, if you have any, and don't have to worry about having another doctor walk up to the person you love and watch as they shred their heart to pieces and step on it.

I feel around for a hand. Any hand, to just hold. But there's nothing there. Matter of fact, Trystan is gone. He's left me. _I knew it was too good to be true. As soon as he saw the doctor coming near he probably booked it out the front door_.

I start to panic. I say things when I panic, things that are not needed to be said. Luckily, there is no one here to hear the words that come rushing out of my mouth ever so quickly.

_What is happening to me? I've known this man for a couple of hours and already I'm falling apart without him. Where is the girl who needs no one to lean against? Has she just disappeared from inside me?_

I am scared again. I curl up into a little ball on the hard uncomfortable hospital chair. I close my eyes tightly. I imagine myself in his arms again; every muscle tense around my lifeless body. I imagine the dream no matter how frightening it is.

He's gone, he's gone. I keep repeating that. I shouldn't be this upset. People come into my life and leave all the time, but I am. _He doesn't care who I am, but then again, he doesn't even know me. But he wants to, I can tell. Or can I? _

'_Charlotte, you cannot let people in to your life anymore. All they will do is hurt you. This is wrong. Put the barrier back up. Build that wall. Do not let anyone in no matter what they say, no matter how hard they try to break into it. This is your life, you have control. I am in control.'_ I repeat that to myself twenty seven times. I tell myself that until I believe it, and start to breathe evenly again. I can do this. He will not break me, he will not open me.

Then he's there. Trystan, sweet Trystan. He stands over my balled up form. Placed in his hands are two cups of what smell like coffee. I feel stupid now; ashamed again. I watch him sit beside me and place the coffees on the floor.

_Do not let him touch you. Do not let his soft skin connect with yours. It will sear you. It will hurt you. Maybe not now, but in the future you will regret not listening. _

_Will I?_ I think to myself. _Would it be that horrible to have someone in my life that could care for me and look after me? Dare I say, love me? Does he even like me? Surely you must like someone before you can love them._ He kneels down before me, his face inches from mine. He looks confused.

"Charlotte, what happened?" My eyes are no longer closed shut; they are opened wide; staring straight ahead at nothing in particular. They are wide with fear. Fear of not knowing what will happen next.

I'm afraid. I do not want to go back to my empty home. The water sitting in the kettle that was left on the stove is probably cold and stale by now. The kitchen tiles will still be soaked with my mother's blood. Only now, it will be dried and crisp like it had been baking in the sun all day.

My living room will still be shabby and torn up. My room; so silent, so still. The furniture, they will not mock me now. I am the owner of the house now. They will bow down before me. They will plead for me not to break them and trash them with my anger. They will obey every command. But of course, there will be no command because there is nothing they can do. They are inanimate objects, and I am crazy for talking to them.

But those are simple fears, what I am most afraid of is going home and feeling her. I will feel her everywhere. Feel her in her smell that will linger around the house, the smell of lavender and wild berries.

I will feel her presence moving about the picture frames that decorate my dresser. I will feel her in the food that was left over from last night's dinner. I will feel her in all the memories that that households.

There will be no escaping her once again.

"Dead," is all I say before closing my eyes again and start to cry. His arms are around me, and no matter what I've been telling myself for the past ten minutes, I allow him too, because right now, his arms and his frame is the only thing keeping me together.


	6. Chapter 5: Pity Pity Everywhere

Chapter 5: Pity Pity Everywhere

"I think it would be best if you just take her home." The receptionist, Barb, whispers.

_Poor Barb, poor you. You sit behind that desk of yours all day. You type up the files the doctor's hand to you by the dozen. You answer phones, and you direct people to the door while bringing in more. _

_This is your life. Although you are not watching people die, you still have the pleasure to watch people cry over lost loved ones, or exit with family members that will never smile again; will never feel like them._

_Saying goodbye to people you know you will see again for their weekly medication, or chemotherapy or radiation treatments. You've learned to freeze your heart during the day so you do not feel any pain or sympathy for anyone. _

_You've learned over these years that relationships with patients only lead to a broken heart. So, as you stand above Trystan telling him we need to leave, you feel nothing._

_You roll your eyes when you see his expression on his innocent beautifully carved face. You do not let us get to you. All you do is turn around and walk behind your desk. You sit your plump bum down in your nice soft cushioned chair, and you do what you've been doing your entire life._

"I'm not going home!" I yell from across the room. My tears mean nothing to me now. All that brews inside me is anger.

Barb barely looks up from her computer; obviously not startled enough.

"How can you have no heart?" I scream, lifting myself from Trystan. He is trying to calm me down; shushing me again. I ignore him.

"Barb. You see people lose their lives every day! Don't you? I suppose you could say you're used to death. You know what I think! I think that's sick. How you can say you are used to people crying over so much death. I bet you've never lost a single person important to you in your life."

I don't know why I am screaming now. I try to shut myself up, but the action is useless. My mouth has a mind of its own now, " It's sick to know that you see people come in through those doors, and leave with one less person in their lives, and all you have to say is ' I think you should go home now.'"

I'm kind of glad there's no one else in the room to hear my outrageous temper.

"You need to go home, girl." She's glaring at me now. Her eyes glazed with hatred.

"I don't want to go home! How dare you tell me that!" Before Trystan or I can stop myself, I'm grabbing the cup of coffee from the floor, and in minutes it's leaving my hand.

Like slow motion I watch it glide perfectly through the air before landing right in front of Barb and splattering everywhere. Her entire desk looked like it had just taken a ride down a muddy mountain side.

"I think we should go." Trystan whispers. I feel his firm grip on my elbow trying to shove me out the door. I'm about to protest when he cuts me off and says, "Not home, just out of here." I give him a small nod, and slightly embarrassed, we run out the doors and into the parking lot.

The hospital lights illuminate the car, making it easier to find. Trystan shoves me through the driver's side of the car, and squeezes in himself. We watch Barb run out of the building as we drive away.

Both of us are crammed in the driver's seat. I am wondering how he is driving. The gear shift is poking me in my side. It hurts a lot, but I deal with it until Trystan pulls over on the side of the road and parks the car.

He closes his eyes slowly, and lets out a breath I noticed he'd been holding for a while. He rests his head against the seat. I'm sitting so close to him; his thigh is touching mine.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have acted that way." I whisper to him. He doesn't move. I need to move. My legs are cramping, and my feet are falling asleep. I start to move; trying to creep my way over to the other seat. I feel uncomfortable being so close to him. He could do anything right now and I'd be the first one in his view.

I'm so jammed in, it's not very easy. My arms are too tired to hold my body weight. I'm moving too much. He notices my struggles, but doesn't move. His eyes are opened and on me. I freeze in my awkward position. My elbows are flaring everywhere, my knobby knees are jutted in the steering wheel and one is jabbing Trystan in the side. He doesn't seem to notice. If he did though, he did a really good job hiding it.

Then the strangest thing begins to happen. Laughter, but not any laughter, Trystan's laugh. It breaks the silence suddenly. I wonder what's going on. This doesn't seem like an appropriate time to be laughing, but he is, and he doesn't stop.

I sit there beside him, waiting. I want to laugh with him, I want to let out everything, but I don't. It's not right.

"I go out to get some milk for mom, and I end up doing this. Sorry, I shouldn't be laughing, but I'd rather laugh then cry." Rather laugh then cry? Why have I not thought that? Laughing is much easier then crying. But I guess it depends on how you look at things, "sorry, I guess you want away from me now," he looks embarrassed.

I try to shake my head, but I would be partly lying. I did want away from him, but not away as in forever, just away as in sitting in my own seat beside him. He scoots over an inch. It's not much, but it's enough for me to wiggle my butt out of the seat and into the one beside me.

I stretch my legs out to their full length, and my arms above my head. I can feel the tiny bones in my neck crack as I strain them backwards. My legs feel much better, and my arms not so stiff.

I can feel Trystan's gaze soaking in my sad little body.

"Not the night you imagined, I suspect." I say quietly. I want the tension to ease. The night was sad enough. Let the ride be a little lighter. He let out a small giggle before answering me, "not exactly. What do we do now?"

_We?_ I want to ask. _We are doing nothing. You are probably going to leave me on the side of the road to fend for myself. I don't know what you will be doing, Trystan. Perhaps you will go back to the store to pick up that milk you were sent out to get hours ago. During the drive you will try to come up with some sad excuse of your absence during the time you left and time you return. While you are going back to your perfect life, I will be going to a house full of memories of my dead mother_. But I don't say any of this. All I do is shrug.

"You've obviously pointed out that you don't want to go home. It's Monday though, you have school today." Trystan, you sound like my father.

Father; I forgot about my dad. Who knows where he is; _probably wandering the streets, half empty bottle of whisky wobbling in his hand._

But, does knowing my father is uncontrollable with his drinking make me want to go home any faster? Not particularly. I look around my surroundings. The street seems a little familiar; if I tried really hard I could probably find my way home. It's quite obvious that I'm not going to school today. I reach for the car handle, "thanks for everything. Really, no one would have done that for me. But, I've taken up your night and that was selfish of me. I should just leave now."

I babble on a few more thank you's, and open the rusted door, but before I make it out, Trystan grabs my hand. His grasp is strong, but it's a desperate strong. He doesn't want me to go.

I look down at his gripping hand, then to his pleading eyes, "Charlotte," listening to him say my name; it gives me butterflies in my stomach.

I close the door softly then sit back down. He doesn't let go, even though he's won, and he knows it. "Who are you, Charlotte Prowl? I feel like I know you." These words, they sting, even though they were only meant to be said out of curiosity. _Poor Trystan, you are digging yourself deeper and deeper in this hole, until one day you will look up and realise you did not bring a phone, a ladder or anything to help you get out of this grave you have dug for yourself._

_Soon you will have nothing to depend on. You will be pulled from all life. And yet, you sit there whistling to pass the time. You are so positive someone will be walking through and see you, and give you a hand_.

_You think I will help you along this frightening path they call my life. You want to be a part of that adventure? _

Again, I do not say any of this, instead I say, "you will never know me, Trystan." I realised that's the first time I've said his name aloud. It sounds different spoken then in my head.

"I want to know you. I wish us meeting was under different circumstances, but I can't be picky. I know I am not much, and you deserve way better, but I've never met anyone like you before." This is not making sense to me.

He's known me for only a few hours, most of which were spent napping. "You've only known me a few hours. All you know about me is my name and that my mother just passed away. Are you only saying this because you pity me? Because if you are, don't. I don't need your pity; I get so much of it on my own as it is."

_You expect fairy tales, and happily ever after, but with me all you'll get is cold hard reality._ He winces as my words. I knew they would hurt, but knowing that did not stop me from saying them.

"I'm sorry, Trystan," I can't stop saying his name, "but the truth hurts sometimes. I am not who you think, and I am not someone you want to get involved with. I don't understand why you'd want to in the first place."

I reach for the door handle again, and lift myself out of the green bean green car. "Thanks," I yell over my shoulder as I head down the street.

"Who are you then?" he's standing inside his opened door, "a girl who's too ashamed to show herself. Someone who goes around school and public areas as someone they're not?" I freeze.


	7. Chapter 6: Echoes of Emptiness

Chapter 6: Echoes of Emptiness

"I'm right, aren't I?" I'm crying again, but not because of what he's said, but because he's done it. It only took him a few hours, but he's the first one to finally break me down in a long time. I can feel all my work and sweat slowly crack then shatter like a window that's been penetrated with a rock. Then he's behind me.

I feel his presence perfectly, standing there. His arms rub my quivering shoulders. I can't control myself. I turn around and weep into his chest.

When my sobs quiet down, Trystan dries my face with the sleeve of his shirt. He's rocking me, like we were slow dancing to no music. I lift my head to look at him, but because he's taller than me I end up looking at his lips. I stare straight into his eyes, then at his lips again.

_Do I want to kiss him? I've been kissed before, but the urge to want has never been this strong. The guys I've kissed, they were only interested in getting in my pants, but he is different. Trystan, it is hard to explain, but I can feel it. _

_He's not like everyone else. How he is able to control my own body for me. How he is able to get inside my head, unlike everyone else, who has tried and just given up. _

His hand comes off the small of my back and cups my cheek gently. He leans down but stops nearly an inch from my lips. His eyes are asking me if it's all right to be doing this. I give him a small nod and close my eyes. I wait. It's the longest two seconds I've ever had to wait, but then I feel his lips brush against mine. They barely skimmed the top, but it was enough.

My lips felt like they were on fire like I was kissing a hot burner.

He pulled back.

Why? Maybe he didn't feel the same thing I did. Maybe he is unsure if I want more, which I do. I don't know again. I don't know anything right now. My head is spinning and I feel very dazed, but I don't want him to stop. So I snake my arms around his neck and pull him close to me.

I've never felt like this before. This is all new to me. I feel like a baby that just took its first steps. I stretch on my toes, looking for his lips with mine. When I find them, I don't let him pull back again. I deepen this kiss so it's not just a light brushing, but an actual kiss. I ignore the blazing flames it's creating. We turn into one person; moving with each other, our mouths in sync. His hands are in my hair, but not lightly like before at the hospital. He's grabbing fist full's and letting it go.

I know I need to stop, but I can't. His hands are resting on my waist now; he's slowing down like he's just read my mind. Trystan pulls back and looks at me, "I do not understand you," is all he says. I smile; a real smile. It feels weird on my face, out of place like it just doesn't belong there.

"I can say the same thing about you." I reply gingerly.

We stand out in the dark for a while. How long? I'm not sure because for once I'm not counting the seconds that pass. I'm just enjoying this moment to its fullest.

After a bit, Trystan begins moving me towards the car. "I'm taking you home." Home; did I not just finish telling you I do not wish to go home?

Like reading my mind he says, "but I'm staying with you. That is if it's alright with you." My voice has disappeared again, so I just nod.

The sun is starting to come up. First all it is is a thin line between night and morning. Then as the minutes pass, it slowly begins to raise itself above the horizon. The sky bursts into color, and the mournful night is erased. I can't even tell it ever happened looking at the sunrise.

We pull into my short narrow driveway. It is empty. Dad obviously hasn't heard anything, and is still out drinking. Trystan looks at the pitiful house I call home; with its shingles a muck on the roof. The door is slightly bent from the slamming it does, and the white paint is peeling. The front lawn isn't bright green like everyone else's, but dead and brown. The living room window is cracked. I remember how it got cracked.

It was November. I'd just gotten into a fight with my mother. I told her I wanted out of this messed up house. I wanted to leave her and my drunken father. I packed my bags up. Every single raggy piece of clothing I owned and my laptop. I trudged down the stairs and placed my suitcase by the door.

She screamed at me. Asked me where I could go at the age of sixteen. I screamed at her; a scream that shook the walls of our fragile little house.

We continued like that for quite a bit. I remember the expression on her face. Vile, filled with a hate I've never seen before. It felt like she would have just picked up my bags and tossed me to the curb herself. She started throwing random excuses at me.

"You're going to become just like your father. Become a prostitute? Is that what you're planning? Sleep with guys for money so you can buy drugs and beer. Get a good high on before you climb into bed with someone else. Next thing I know, you're showing up on my doorstep impregnated with no clue at all as to who the father is." Her words were tiny bullets being fired at me. So I picked up the first thing I saw. It was the weirdest thing; a cookie jar that was placed on the ceramic counter.

It was of a puppy. I picked it up, juggling its weight in both my two hands. Then without thinking, I threw it as hard and as far as I could. It was a long shot, and I wasn't even close to her, instead it hit the window. The jar shattered sending splinters of pottery flying everywhere, and it hit the window so hard that it cracked in all directions.

My mom's eyes were opened wide, frightened. She didn't look at me. Just shook her head in disappointment and ascended the stairs to her dark little room. I cried for the first time that night. That's how all this began; a night on the streets. Every minute some guy was whistling at me, or taking pity on me, but I never gave in. I wouldn't allow her words to come true. So I lay there in the rain all night. I didn't get a single minute of sleep; just cried for hours until the sun came up.

"Charlotte." Trystan calls pulling me out of my daydream, "you okay? I feel like that's all I've said since I met you."

I gave him a small nod again, and stepped out of the car. It shifts with the weight change, and sort of bounces underneath me. Trystan is waiting at the door. It isn't locked. I didn't even think about locking it when I left. I walk up the driveway; jump the six and a half steps to the door. Trystan, takes my hand and pushes it open lightly.

As I suspected, the place looks no different than it did last night. The couch and fireplace just as cheap and dusty; the stairs I ran down so hurriedly last night looked shaken and creaked, the kitchen, messy. The tiles are dyed deep red in the middle. Crusted water scatters the stove top from where the kettle over boiled and spilled water over its sides.

I hardly look at the house. I keep my eyes locked on Trystan. I watch him sweep his gaze over the different rooms; each one giving off its own memories. The kitchen holds the one of last night, and the many nights before that. Each night of the argument, the shouting, fighting, cursing, drinking and crying.

I can just visualise my mother leaning against the counter with her thin, boney arms crossed over her chest. That all to well known look of hate glazing her eyes, but the tired deep purple bruises underneath them from all the sleepless nights she'd endured through.

My father stands in the middle of the kitchen, one hand gripping the fridge handle for support because he's so drunk he can't even stand up straight. His eyes wander around the different surfaces of the kitchen. They start on the smooth granite of the counter that lies behind my mother's tense body then move to the parted tiled floors; lingers a little bit too long on the clear glass liquor bottles.

This big man, who stands in the middle of the kitchen, this large grotesque man, is such a coward. He can't even look his own wife in the eye. Little does he know that this would be the last time ever laying his eyes on her.

Trystan pulls me away from my thoughts. My hands are still locked on his arm. "What's the one room you feel safest in?" he asked, his voice echoing off the empty house. I have no favourite room, Trystan, I want to say, this entire house is the same; scary, empty, haunted and sends tiny bumps up my arms and shivers down my spine. "My room," I answer being the coward I am, I do not have the guts to say any of this to him.


	8. Chapter 7: Envy Looks Horrible on You

Chapter 7: Envy Looks Horrible On You

He wants to let me lead the way, but that is very difficult to do with me clinging to his arm while hiding behind him. So, he goes first, "Last door at the end of the hall, to the left," I instruct.

He gives me a nod of understanding and begins to climb the stairs. They squeak like tiny mice, with the weight bearing down on the old wood. We make it to the top, and he starts to walk through the haunted hallway. I can still hear my father's voice bellowing from the kitchen. _Oh Trystan, why did you have to bring me here?_

_ This place will not give me nightmares, this house is my nightmare. It will swallow me. Suffocate me. Strangle me until it hears my plea. This house will be my death. I will be buried here, it is my future grave._

Trystan grabs the door handle and turns it. When it's ajar he is facing stairs. "You live in the attic?" I nod again, not trusting my voice. My throat is dry. All moister evaporated. I know that if I try to speak, my voice will crack and break with the rest of my body following. Trystan starts to climb the new set of stairs, towing me behind him.

I've never had anyone in my room before, not even my mother. It is the only place in this world that is mine, and I never wanted to give it to anyone, but for some reason i always seem to give in, but I feel safer in here like no matter what's going on outside the door, it cannot get to me. So I let go of Trystan, and move to my bed where I sit down on the edge.

It is quiet. Like I had imagined, the furniture that is just here, watching us is afraid of me. Scared that I can do to it what it has done to me and it cannot harm me in return. I can smash it into tiny little slivers, feel its wood puncture my skin and slowly move its way to my heart. I can shred it and tear it and break it. Make it feel pain, even though it is only wood. I can do all of this, and still get away with it.

Trystan sits down at my desk. My laptop is still opened on it to my last entry. Trystan is looking around my sanctuary. His eyes wander on my closet. Dark and almost empty, the few pieces of clothing I own barely take up a quarter of my closet.

He stands up and walks over to my dresser. The top of it is covered in cheap dollar store picture frames. My entire life lays on top of that small pine dresser. He stands over it and picks up one of the frames. It's red with tiny white stars scattering all over. Inside is a picture of my dad holding a tiny me; it was the day I was born. The doctors pulled me out and handed me off to my mother.

I think that was the only time she actually smiled while looking at me. Too bad I was too young to remember. After she had her first look at me, whether that is with love or disgust, she passed me over to my father. She told me this story when I was younger, the only story she really liked. Once in my father's arms, I opened my foam green eyes and smiled a toothless smile. My dad looked down on me and started to cry, that's when the nurse snapped a picture.

When my dad became a drunk, I went digging through his things and stole that picture. It's my one and only picture of him. It is my favourite.

Trystan smiled at it, "this is you." It wasn't a question, but him just stating a fact. Perhaps he is just making sure he had it right.

"Me and my dad, the day I was born. My mom told me it was the only time she's ever seen him cry." I believed her when she said that. Of all the years knowing my dad; after everything he's seen, or been through, not once had I seen him cry.

"Are you and your dad close?" I shake my head.

"My dad started drinking when I was about ten. My mom cheated on him and he was never the same after that. She came back after leaving for a year with this guy. He took her in, but every night he goes out drinking with his friend, comes home a mess, they argue and then he goes off somewhere."

He looks at me, pity flooding through his face, "I'd listen to them fight every night. I would stand here," I get up and walk to the exact spot I'd stand each night, "and I'd listen to their voices float up the stairs. Each night, after I hear my dad's car roar down the street, I'd then hear my mother's footsteps thump up the stairs, go into her room, and I'd listen to her cry until she fell asleep. Every night; except last night." It sounded like I was trying to convince myself it had all happened, instead of explaining to Trystan.

He looked up from the dresser of pictures to my window. Outside was the cardinal nest, "this is so cool." He exclaimed. The joy I saw on his face reminded me of a young boy opening what he wanted for Christmas. "Yeah," I said, "the three babies, they just hatched a couple of days ago. I've been watching the mother build that nest for weeks."

His face changed quickly, "Three?" I nod, "there's only two here."

_No, Trystan, you are mistaken. I have watched those three little baby birds grow up in the past couple of days. I have watched them hatch out of their little eggs. Seen them feed from their own mother. I know there is three babies_.

I stand up and walk over to Trystan. Outside is the small little nest, and settled in it are two tiny birds. But the third is gone.

"That's so weird." I state. Where is he? I am really not in any mood to go looking for him. Maybe, he's already learned to fly and is off on his own. Oh how I envy that little bird. First, its mother, now him. He is off on his own, flying free; about to begin his own life.


	9. Chapter 8: Haunting Memories

Chapter 8: Haunting Memories

My shoulders began to shake slowly. I don't know why because I have nothing to be sad about that I haven't already cried over. But I know I can't hold myself together anymore. It was just a bird, nothing to be crying over.

But, maybe it wasn't the bird. Maybe it was everything; like reality just hit me hard in the back of my head knocking the tears right out of me.

"Oh, Charlotte," Trystan wails grabbing hold of my two shoulders and pressing my head against his chest, " Shh, baby, it'll be okay. Don't cry."

Why _will it be okay? You know, don't you Trystan. You know I'm not crying for the missing baby bird. You know I'm crying because that baby bird reminds me of my dead mother, my drunk father and the rest of my fucked up life_.

"It'll be alright," you repeat. _You, Trystan, are making me angry; you and your unnecessary positive attitude. It is not going to be alright. My life and everything else is going to be thrown into the ocean. Me and the world I rest on my shoulders are going to sink to the bottom where no one will find us, therefore allowing us to die a painful death again_.

"It's not going to be okay," I shout a little louder then I had planned, "can't you see, Trystan. My life is already down the drain. This is only making things worse. How can things be okay? I've hit rock bottom, the only thing I need to do now is die."

I've moved away from him now. I'm glaring at him, but he does not return that hateful glare. He is still looking at me with care and pity.

"Things are not going to be okay, Trystan. They have never been okay, and they never will be okay. Don't you get it! This is my life; this is what I have been dealing with all my life." He starts to come closer to me, tries to walk right through the thin invisible wall I've started to build in the few seconds I've managed to grasp a hold of. "Look, Charlotte, I know you're hurt. I know this isn't easy for you, but I want to help. I know how you feel."

"Don't tell me you know how I feel. According to everyone, they know how I feel. No one knows how I feel. Don't you understand? I hate this world. Everyone, they look at me with their fake smiles. Their pity. I can't stand this anymore!" I scream one last time then take off out the door.

I jump down my small staircase and run through the hallway.

"Charlotte!" I hear Trystan call. His quick pace footsteps follow closely behind. I run down the house stairs, two at a time, jumping the last four altogether. I run through the living room, but when I meet the door all I face is resistance.

I slam into the wood, but the lock is stuck, and my time is very limited. I don't open it. Instead I slam my fist against it hard. The pain starts from my fingers and works its way into my wrists and down my arm. I hit it again and again. I hit the door until my arm is numb completely.

Trystan comes up from behind me and grabs my waist. I slam my hand against his chest hard. I hear the breath get knocked right out of him. I keep hitting and kicking. I try to hurt him like everyone else has hurt me, but he doesn't leave. He doesn't move. What he does do, is grab me tighter. Pulls me towards him so that my arms are locked to my side; I struggle.

_Trystan, sweet Trystan. Why do you not leave? Why do you not help everyone throw me overboard? Watch the murder of a seventeen year old girl, be a part of it. Enjoy it like every other human. Death, it surrounds us anyways. Who will miss one other girl, especially I? No one, that's the answer, so go off to your mother, buy your milk, and leave me be_.

"Leave me alone. Stop it! I can't do this anymore!" I scream at him, but he does not loosen his grip.

My face is so wet, my eye sight so blurry. My legs feel weak. My hands hurt from the force. My entire body just gives up. I fall limb against Trystan, "I will never leave you," he doesn't quite whisper these words in my ear, but there's enough force behind them to make me believe him.

"Why?" I ask, "You don't know me." He sighs, and guides me over to the dusty couch, "I know you better then you think." I give him this look as to say, enlighten me.

"You are a girl who has lost everything. Or thinks she has lost everything; two identities. One fake, to show people what they want to see. A girl, who is strong, has everything; a life with no worries, fears or challenges that exceed higher than her everyday high school life.

"The other, a lonely girl who hides out in her room. Not someone who thinks their better than everyone else, but thinks they are a lowlife. No place in the world for you, so you captivate yourself. You think you're beneath everything. I bet you think the crappy pieces of furniture are higher then you, better.

"But the difference, Charlotte, is you see people for who they are. Or, you have seen them. Everyone you watch, they have all been cruel, fake, stuck up. And because all these people are like that, you have it in your head that everyone you meet is going to be like that, including me.

"You block yourself off. You make it so that no one can get close enough to hurt you. You create this invisible wall to hide behind, and as soon as anyone comes close to even creating a crack in that wall, you get scared and make it thicker, or worse, runaway."

I hate how he's right. It makes me cry harder. "Only one person has managed to break through me in my entire life." I manage to say. It wasn't a complete lie, but it wasn't the truth.

"Who was that?" I look up at Trystan. Into his kind, tired eyes, and say the one word that will most likely change everything, "you." But it wasn't just Trystan.

Then he was kissing me. Not just my lips, but my eyelids, cheeks, nose, jaw line. He kissed me everywhere. He sent my entire face into flames. My skin seared beneath his lips. Every touch made me feel more and more alive. We were so close. It felt like we were welded together.

Everything about him. His smell, his touch, his taste. Everything, it just makes me want him more.

I have to stop. I am not going to let him take over me completely. I am still me. I am still Charlotte, no matter how much he knows, no matter how much he can say; I am not going to let him get to me. I am going to perish this small bit that I still have ownership over. So I push him away, "stop." I say simply. That one four letter word has so much meaning to it, it scares me.

Trystan listens, but he does not like it. I can tell by the look on his face. The look of confusion. He leans back on his elbows, slightly out of breath, and just stares at me. No apology, no ask for an explanation, just looks at me. "You don't want me to. You hate how it's me." He finally says.

_Yes, Trystan_, I think, _I am terrified that it's you. I am afraid of the feelings I conjure up for you. Afraid of you seeing the real me at my weakest moments. Afraid you'll judge me, hurt me, and leave me there to die_.

"Of all the people, why you? I don't mean that in a bad way. It's just that, I don't know. I'm so confused. I've never been this confused. I usually know what's happening. I take it with force. Nothing gets passed me. So, why have I let you in?" I am talking more to myself then Trystan. Like saying it out loud makes it clearer. No such luck, I am still just as frazzled as before.

"Have you ever been in love, Charlotte?" Trystan asks. _Love, what is it? A four letter word that'll stab you until your heart is unable to feel anything at all. Trystan, if I tell you, what will you do? What will you think of me; a helpless girl who really has lost everything? Should I lie to you, lose your trust altogether?_

"Yes." I say, regretting it the minute it leaves my mouth. Your eyes widen with curiosity. Like this wasn't the answer you expected. _You thought I was going to say no, I haven't let anyone into my life, and I have not fallen for anyone else. You are wrong Trystan_.

"It was a year ago. He came into my life and swept me off my feet. Saved me from my mother. Literally pulled me off the streets. I was the same way with him, as I am with you right now. Scared, unsure, distant, but he didn't push. He was very sweet.

"I remember whenever I was upset, or mother and I got into another fight, he knew. I never understood how though. I never called him, never talked to him over the phone, but after every argument, I'd look out my window, and I'd see him standing there just under the tree.

"He'd climb up and just hold me until I was calm. I'd sit there and talk to him for hours."

I can't believe I am telling him this; my deepest secret.

"Truth is, I was in love with him. I allowed myself to get too close." Trystan sat there just listening to me. He isn't completely pushed away. He holds my hand, stroking it along the knuckles.

"What was his name?" he asks in a whispered voice. I hesitate, unsure if I'm able to say it aloud. "Daunavin. Daunavin Perry."


	10. Chapter 9: I See The Real You

Chapter 9: I See The Real You

"What happened to him?" Trystan asks. I am sitting in his lap now, his arms are wrapped lightly around my waist, his head resting gently on my shoulder.

"Daunavin, died, in a car accident two days after my sixteenth birthday. He was coming home from a family trip. Insisted he drive himself because he wanted to stop at my house before his own to wish me a happy birthday. Apologise for missing it. He was turning into my street when some drunk driver ran a red light, hit him full on.

"Three days after the accident, his mom came up to me and handed me a tiny package. She said it was for my birthday, that he was going to give it to me the night he died. The police had found it under the passenger's seat of his car. It was a locket. Inside was a picture of us, and the word 'forever' engraved beside it."

I wrap my fingers around the tiny necklace that hangs around my neck, "I haven't taken it off since."

Trystan's gentle hands push my hair back to get a better look at the chain, "I couldn't go to his funeral. Mom wouldn't let me out of her sight, so I couldn't get out of the house. She didn't know about him. I was too afraid to tell her. I didn't want to lose him. That was always one of the things he hated. How I wouldn't introduce him, but he still put up with it.

"After he died, it was like my world just went completely black. He was my only light, and when he left it was like someone blew out the candle. I was left to deal with my mother and father myself. No one to talk to, I was alone. I shut myself out of the world. No one knew why though because no one knew Daunavin." I am finished. There is no way I am going to tell him anything else.

"So, you are either afraid of opening up to me, which I don't think is it because that's what you are doing right now. Or, you are afraid I'm going to replace Daunavin."

_Excuse me, Trystan. How dare you even suggest that! Of course I'm not afraid of replacing him. No one will ever replace him. Not even you. No matter how perfect, wonderful, strong you may be. You, my Trystan, will never be better than Daunavin!_

"I will never let you replace him." I spat, tearing myself away from him, and running back up to my room. I slam the thin wooden door, splintering it a bit.

"Don't ever talk to me, Trystan." I scream a scream that is nearly a replica of the one I gave my mother during the fight.

Before me stands my room; the furniture cowering in the corners.

The window is shaken. It knows I can break it. On the dresser glass picture frames scatter the top. I grab each one of them and throw them against the wall.

I listen to that sound; the sound of glass cracking and breaking and shattering across my floor. The pictures are shredded. Shards of my mother's face are here and there. The picture of my father and I is torn underneath its star frame. I fall to the floor in weakness; my hands landing in pieces of glass.

The shards pierce my skin. I see tiny dots of blood drop on the wooden floor. Trystan is at the door, trying to knock it down. At some point he succeeds, and is now emerging from the top of the stairs. He takes a few minutes to look over at my temper. The floor is covered in glass.

_You, Trystan, will never leave. Every time I do something, you just run right back_. You are grabbing my head in your hands. Looking over the scrapes I've created myself.

You push the glass aside and sit down next to me. You take your shirt off and wrap my hands in it before tucking me under your shoulder and rocking me again. I am ashamed for yielding again. I keep telling myself, no, don't, and yet here I am, in your arms again.

"How do you know so much? Why do you care?" I don't really want to talk at the moment, but these two questions have been burning in my mind just asking for an answer. "Because I've been in the same position before."

I didn't know what to think of his answer, "I knew this girl, Mirinda. She was like you in some ways. Never acted like herself around people. Acted fake. But she didn't do this on purpose. She had identity issues. Wasn't sure who she was. Drove me insane because after a while, I forgot who she was as well.

"She would tell me she loved me one moment, and the next she didn't even want people to know we were friends, let alone dating. After a while I got fed up, left her to work out her own problems. It was the biggest mistake I ever made. See, Mirinda didn't have many friends. The only people she did know betrayed her as soon as I left.

"Next thing I know, two months after we'd broken up, I get a phone call from her mom telling me she'd gone crazy. She had tried to kill herself. Unsure of what to make of anything. They sent her away to some mental institute. It was too far for me to visit. I'd lost her completely.

"The night I found out I asked myself, 'what if she had succeeded in killing herself?' I'd have blamed it on me. Like I murdered her. I thought that was going to be my last chance to be with anyone. I'd blown it. Then, last night I saw you. I didn't want to pick you up.

"I thought, 'what's the point. She'd walk into my life, take my help, and leave like anyone else.' I didn't have any more chances. Then I held you at the hospital, and you looked so helpless. I knew it was too late. But when I went to get coffee, I promised myself I would not let you turn into another Mirinda.

"Kind of silly though. To think you're like Mirinda. You are much stronger then she was. Prettier, in your own way. Quieter, when you aren't yelling. More violent, but that's not always a bad thing. Much more independent. Mirinda was always looking for people to be with, cling to, you don't, you'd much rather stick on your own. I prefer that then a crowd myself."

I'm not quite sure what his point is in all of this, but It feels good being able to listen to Trystan. To finally give him something in return.


	11. Chapter 10: Uncovering the True Lies

Chapter 10: Uncovering the True Lies

Somewhere between the chaos I created and the comfort Trystan created, my dad came home, "Eliza!" I hear him call. Eliza was my mother's name. Dad doesn't know about anything. Trystan's head snaps towards the door, and I feel his grip tighten around my waist. The lock is still stuck, so he can't get in.

" He won't hurt me unless he's drunk," I try to assure Trystan, but still he won't let go. There is a slam downstairs. A slam that sounds like the door has been blown right off its hinges, "Eliza, answer me!"

My dad's voice sounds louder like it is right below us. That's because he is right below us.

" Charlotte!" he yells this time. _I can't just not respond; he is my father. Trystan, why don't you let me go. I need to see him, make sure he's alright. I need to tell him what's happened._

" Trystan, I have to tell him." He looks at me, unsure of what to do. I can tell he is contemplating. Discussing it with himself. Laying down what might happen.

" Fine, but I go with you." I am about to protest, but it is too late. Trystan is already pulling me to my feet, and dragging me behind him down the hall. I stop quickly at the top of the stairs. I can see my father's destruction done to the door, his shoes lie at different angles beside it. His jacket is hung up on the banister. He is in the kitchen. He knows.


	12. Chapter 11: Tears of Whiskey

Chapter 11: Tears of Whiskey

I can hear the sound of glass hitting against glass. The sound of the whisky bottles being opened for the first time. He is getting drunk again.

" Daddy," I say quietly pushing aside Trystan so I can be the first to see my father. Trystan tries to pull me back but my wrists are too small, they just slip out of his hands.  
Once I climb off the last stair, I peak around the wall leading into the kitchen. There is my father. Tall, huge and monstrous. I have known him all my life, so how can I possibly be intimidated by him still.

He is sitting at the kitchen table. Hands in fists around the fragile glass bottles. Every couple of minutes he takes a gulp from it and winces from the burn that closely follows. His eyes land on the stains covering the floor, then back to the bottle.  
He looks tired. His arms lie on the table with no strength left in them. He fights to keep his eyes open, and shadows hover underneath. Even his head lulls a little too far forward giving me the impression that he is bowing down to someone. I feel Trystan's hand around my arm. He's looking at me, pleading. Asking me to not do anything I might regret. I don't know what to do. I'm scared again.

"Dad," I say, turning my attention back to him. His head pops up slowly until he's facing me.

"What the hell happened, Charlotte?" He yells with a slight slur to his words. He is drunk, the whisky already moving to his head. _I have to tell him. He's my dad, he has to know. But I've been around him when he gets angry. I don't want Trystan to see me so weak._

" After the fight, after you left. Sh-she," I make a slicing movement across my wrists, unable to rely on words anymore, " i-i took her to the hospital, and waited. The doctor said she'd lost too much blood on the way. Nothing they could do." I wait.

He is still at the moment. Then just as soon as I think he isn't going to do anything. Quick as lightning, he has his hand raised in the air and then slashes it across my face.

"How could you let her die, you little monster." I have felt the sting of the slap many times before, but his words hurt me more than the contact.

Trystan has moved in front of me by now, glaring up at my father. His arms locked in a defensive position behind him, but still around me. "How dare you protect this criminal? Who are you?" He demands.

"How dare you accuse your own daughter of being a murderer?" That costs him a slap across the face. A small scream escapes my mouth, but Trystan won't let me in front of him.  
" Who are you!" My father is an inch from Trystan's reddened face.

"Trystan Mellity." He speaks softly.  
"Well, Trystan, how dare you speak to me with such diligence? You have no business talking to me that way!"

"I have every right to speak to you, in any way I wish." That costs him a blow to the stomach.

_Trystan!_ I want to scream, _stop talking. Just leave_! But I don't because I know without Trystan, I would be lying on the floor. Beaten to nothing.

"Stop hurting him, please, dad!" He doesn't listen to me, just hits him again. I hear his nose crack, "Trystan, go. To my room. Now. Pack the suitcases with all the clothes you can find." He looks at me, wondering why I'm saying what I am saying.

"Do it! Put anything you think I might need. Clothes, soap, make up. Whatever. Just do it!" He looks at me for another minute before nodding and moving towards the stairs. I hear him curse under his breath, spit, and then start climbing.

"Where do you think you are going?" My father asks. His eyes are dazed. They can't keep still, always wandering around the room.

I can hear Trystan's worried footsteps above me. Slams from the closet door opening and closing. I stand my ground. If he wants to hurt me, fine, so be it, but I am not leaving out of weakness. " I am not going to let you hurt him, or me anymore, father. You killed her, not me. I am through with you. I am leaving."

_Perfect timing. Trystan, you are my life saver_. He tumbled down the stairs with two very full suitcases.

"And where do you think you are going to go. You have no friends. No place to stay. Going to spend the week on the streets again. By then you'll be fed up and come running home." I hate to admit to it, but he is right. I have no place to stay.  
He isn't right about one thing though. I wasn't on the streets last time. I spent one night, and then Daunavin took me in.

Like I said before, it was November. I'd spent one night on the streets, well, not quite a night. It was nearing two or three A.M. It was snowing fairly heavy now. I couldn't see passed two feet in front of me. I was about to give in, head home right then, when a figure stood in front of me. Just like that.

I thought he was God coming to take me away, but no. The man held out a hand. I didn't know who he was or where he was going to take me, but I was too cold to care at the time. So I grabbed it. He hid me under the rather large coat. Protected me from the nasty snow. Pulled me into a house not too far from where he found me. He gave me shelter.

Later on I found out he was Daunavin Perry. I told him everything while covered up in a large red and blue blanket by the fire with a cup of hot chocolate warming my hands. It was then that I first trusted someone. The first person I trusted was a complete stranger.  
" Charlotte is going to stay with me." I hear Trystan say. My father moves his hateful glare from me to him.

" Oh, being the hero are we. Taking in the helpless. Well, you know what. Fine! Leave. Good riddance is what I have to say to that." My father grabs the bottle of whisky and slumps back down at the table. He doesn't cry though. If he cries, maybe, just maybe, I will stay/ But he doesn't, so I grab one of the heavy suitcases full of clothes, and follow Trystan out the busted down door.


End file.
